


Kiss It Better

by Cyndi



Series: Whouffaldi Forever [3]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Autism, Autism Acceptance, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Meltdown, Neurodiversity, Romance, actuallyautistic, autistic 12th Doctor, autistic Twelfth Doctor, autistic headcanon, autistic!12th Doctor, autistic!Twelfth Doctor, behavior is communication, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyndi/pseuds/Cyndi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing makes a lot of things better. (Autistic!12th Doctor, Whouffaldi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss It Better

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the end of Sleep No More and makes a small reference to my When Life Throws Wrenches fic. I saw the Doctor Who season finale and loved it, but I’m still ignoring Face the Raven and everything after it for the moment.
> 
> Sometimes an autistic person needs to have that meltdown and pick up the pieces afterward. And sometimes being a boyfriend is a lot easier than it seems.

.o

Only ten words made up the Doctor’s vocabulary at the moment. He paced laps around the upper level of the TARDIS console room while his emotions boiled.

“It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense!”

How silly did he look, power-walking and muttering to himself? No, no, it didn’t matter. Everything inside him-- his muscles, bones, nerves and organs-- buzzed like killer bees. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand while cupping and rubbing the pinkie edge of it with his left hand. It didn’t funnel the building energy away fast enough. 

Equations drifted through his mind. He always thought in equations and flow charts. But the recent events didn’t add up. Nothing had any order. Not having a formula from which to seek an answer created as much distress as being separated from his pocket chalk. The “stuck” feeling in his brain sent the blood roaring through his ears. Wonderful, this trip made his blood pressure rise.

His walking picked up speed. Fast enough to feel a faint breeze on his nose. He followed the chasing light patterns always racing about the console room walls. Tugging his coat lapel gave him a reassuring whiff of his pocket chalk.

_I'm missing something, but what is it? None of this makes any sense_...

The Doctor rubbed at his hair. He chewed the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom. Beside him, the grinding dimensional stabilizers battered his ears. He could feel his reaction tightening the pit of his stomach like a hot, bright point invisible to the naked eye.

Nagata, the sole survivor of his and Clara’s scary experience aboard the Le Verrier space station, whispered not-so-quietly, “Is he all right?”

Clara ran interference. “Yeah. Best leave him alone. He’s-- ah! Here we are. Landing on Triton now. Doctor?”

He gave her an okay-do-it nod. She pushed the locking mechanism upright to land the TARDIS. Just slightly too fast-- it caused minor turbulence upon exiting the time vortex. Nothing dangerous beyond the TARDIS emitting a louder thump than usual as it materialized.

Suddenly, the Doctor felt every seam and wrinkle in his clothing. Sounds grew distorted. Everything looked disconnected from itself. Details came to him too sharply. He swore he could count all the hairs on Clara’s head if he wanted to. Not focusing on her was a good idea. He glanced at his hands and saw only their component parts. Each joint, vein, wrinkle and pore jumped out at him. Were those  _his_  fingers, knuckles and palms? 

_Too much. Brain, stop it, you’re choking on information. You’re stuck now. Stuck, stuck, stuck!_  

The Doctor detoured down a corridor without speaking to Nagata. Rude or not, he couldn’t make his mouth say anything intelligible. He narrowed his eyes to avoid seeing every dust fleck floating in the air. Now his eardrums thought his footsteps were bombs going off. Damn this reverberating corridor! 

His gaze fell upon the library door. He opened his eyes fully and bolted into it. Adrenaline turned his blood into rocket fuel, letting him practically leap down the staircase to a lower level. 

Everything looked like noise and he couldn’t tell sights apart from sounds or sensations. Moving became a necessity for survival. The pressure inside his nerves would blow his atoms apart if he stopped now. 

This stuck feeling needed to end quickly. He dug his fingers into his gray hair. Not to contain himself, but in a desperate attempt to finish setting himself off.

“None of this makes any  _sense!_ ” shouted the Doctor. He seized a puffy cloth chair that always made an unholy noise and shoved it forward. A loud, painful squeak echoed through the library.

That did it. The Doctor’s ears rang and sudden rage seared his nerve endings.

“None of this makes any sense!” He flipped the chair aside and kicked a pile of books near the bottom of the staircase. 

Sharp, jerky movements and shouting hurled excess rage away like coronal mass ejections. 

Another book pile went to pieces. Then another, and another. Hearing papers flutter and inevitable thuds sent pain across his skull. The chair he flipped got thrown against a bookshelf. That didn’t do, so he stomped on its cushioned backing until his leg muscles ached.

“None of this makes any--” the Doctor grabbed the overturned chair and hurled it aside one more time, “--sense!”

The tornado was over. Now came the rain that always followed in its wake.

A lump clutched his throat when he collapsed to sit on the bottom step of the nearest staircase. Desire for deep pressure screamed inside his nerves. He hugged himself tight and let his head hang forward to his chest. Sobs shook his shoulders like a parody of laughter. Oh how he hated the loud, uncontrollable crying. But tears were a good sign. Tears meant the worst was over and his brain would come unstuck soon.

Quiet footfalls descended the stairs. The Doctor recognized Clara’s shoes by the clomp-clomps.

Clara sat on the step just behind him and eased her legs forward to rest alongside his. She squeezed his hips with her thighs, leaned her full weight against his back and embraced him tightly in a reverse hug. All the shrapnel of his mind felt contained again. Now he could focus on reassembling himself. 

“Breathe, Doctor,” Clara whispered, “Deep breaths.”

He choked between sobs, “None-- of this-- makes-- any sense!”

Not the words he wanted to say, but they were the only words his mouth pronounced.

She nuzzled his shoulder. “I know. It’s all right.”

The Doctor pressed backwards into Clara’s presence, desperate for the reassuring pressure feedback she so graciously offered. Taking uninterrupted deep breaths required insurmountable effort. He kept trying until he settled on the bottom of the meltdown singularity where everything lay still. He was boneless, empty and dark.

Clara’s tight hold helped him feel  _safe_  in that dark emptiness.

“Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara...” The Doctor muttered under his breath.

He wiped his tears inward towards his nose and lifted his head. Clara’s weight shifted slightly. She placed two firm kisses above his left ear.

“Why do you keep kissing me?” sniffled the Doctor.

She placed two more above his right ear and whispered, “Are they helping you feel better?”

“...yes.”

Her cheek rounded against his. She gave him another one on the jaw and began massaging the back of his head with her right hand. He let her because it helped him relax.

“It’s been awhile since I blew up in the library,” he snorted, “Guess I was overdue.”

“That was quite a show,” said Clara.

“Heh-heh! I wish they  _were_  performances.” He turned his head to gaze affectionately at her through the corner of his eye, “Come around front and kiss me on the mouth.”

Clara happily obliged him. His brain came unstuck as their lips met.

“Performances...” The Doctor mumbled mid-kiss. He pulled back and cupped Clara’s cheeks in his palms. “That’s it!” A bright grin lit his whole face, “Clara, that’s it!” He pulled her forward to kiss her in gratitude and scrambled to stand.

“What? Wait, Doctor, you’re--” Then she picked up on it and raised a single, manicured eyebrow. “Ooh...what’s your theory?”

“I’ll tell you yours on the way, then you can tell me mine.” He didn’t notice his error in speech because he was too focused on his own idea. “Did Nagata leave?”

"She’s waiting outside the TARDIS.”

“Good.” 

The Doctor offered Clara his hand. She accepted it. They rushed onward through the control room and burst outside together.

.o

_One week later_...

Rustling winter coats drowned out the creaking TARDIS doors. Two figures wearing hats, ski goggles, heavy coats and boots entered.

“Hell of a slide,” the Doctor told Clara as he scooted sideways through the doorway, his black down coat peppered in white snow. 

They visited a snowy world this go-around. She wanted to teach him how to ski. He pretended he didn’t know how because he liked seeing her fall into teacher mode once in awhile. They tried a rough slope after he feigned getting the hang of it. Clara’s right ski glanced off a rock and she took a nasty tumble. She got up right away, proving she was fine, but seeing her go down like that made his hearts stop for a good minute or two.

_She’s okay. Just a fall. Nothing major_.

He insisted on carrying her back to the TARDIS after she mentioned her ankle hurt, yet thought nothing of it when he set her down on her feet.

“So what do you give that fall? A ten out of-- ack... _ACK!_  Ow!” Clara clutched the lapels of the Doctor’s coat, unintentionally sending a whiff of pleasant chalk smells wafting up from his inner jacket pocket. She bit her lip hard and her eyebrows drew together.

He held her elbows to help her balance. “Clara?”

“My right ankle. I rolled it when I fell. I can’t put any-- ow!-- any weight on it.” 

She wasn’t one to complain of pain unless it  _seriously_  bothered her.

The Doctor scooped her up bridal style, carried her up the stairs and gently deposited her in the chair near the main console. Clara wriggled her puffy purple winter coat off. Then she put her mirrored ski goggles aside, removed her blue gloves, set down the matching hat, slid off her brown moccasin-style boots and peeled away her black wool socks.

Her right ankle looked noticeably red and swollen when compared to the left. A very angry ankle indeed.

The Doctor shed his black down coat, hat, goggles and gloves. He would’ve looked ready for another adventure if his trousers weren’t tucked into a pair of bright red Ugg boots. They went with the red inner lining of his regular coat.

“Stay still, let me run a diagnostic.”

She bit her lip. “I hope it’s not broken.”

He stuck his No Gloom ‘Shroom into his mouth to avoid chewing his thumbnail off while running the scan. An image of her ankle appeared on the monitor. Layer by layer, the scanner examined its inner workings.

“Hm,” the Doctor gave a relieved sigh at finding the bone intact. The ligaments around it, on the other hand, were a stretched out mess. He took the chewy stim toy out of his mouth and straightened. “Clara Oswald, your ankle is intact...and very badly sprained.”

“Argh,” Clara groaned and rubbed her forehead.

He shot her an long-suffering look and pulled a first aid kit out of a hidden drawer beneath the diagnostics panel. From it, he plucked a rolled up bandage resembling spun gold.

“Give me your injured foot.” The Doctor sat on the metal floor with his knees to his chest.

Clara presented her wounded ankle. She’d painted her toenails gold. That amused him for some reason.

“This bandage has nanotech in it.” The Doctor explained while he balanced her heel on his knees and carefully wrapped the bandage around her ankle and foot. He checked periodically to ensure it wasn’t too tight. “It’ll heal your ankle overnight and fall off when the process is complete. You’re going to be good as new by the time you wake up to do teacher things tomorrow. Er-- your tomorrow, anyway. Still, I recommend you stay off this foot and keep it elevated. Nanites don’t like working on wiggly ligaments very much.”

“What do I do with the bandage when it falls off?”

“Drop it in the loo. Water dissolves it. Poof, no evidence.”

“Okay. I’ll remember-- ah! --that.” She flinched at him lifting her heel to finish wrapping her ankle. 

No way to completely avoid the pain, but he made his best efforts at minimizing it.

“Almost-- there.” 

Without thinking about it, he leaned his face closer to kiss her shin just above the bandage. The barest flicker of golden regeneration energy left his lips to bathe her skin and suffuse through the gold bandage fabric. Now the nanites were active. 

“What are you doing?” She wiggled her dainty toes. “That tickles!”

He kissed the top of her foot next. “How is the pain now?”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, closed it again and looked at her foot. “It stopped throbbing.”

The Doctor’s brow relaxed when he smiled. A smile he saved only for her. He gently set her foot down and uncurled to stand.

“You painted your toenails for this, didn’t you?” he teased.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. I painted my nails because I wanted to sprain my ankle and get a matching space bandage.”

He snorted and put the first aid kit away. “Clara-a-a-a...you can’t put the word ‘space’ in front of everything.”

She grinned, “Okay,  _space_  boyfriend.”

The challenging look she shot him could've induced a pregnancy...if their genders were reversed. Those big brown eyes of hers melted him on the spot. He felt warmth rise into his face and sinking away again. She had him there.

An unladylike snort escaped Clara. She laughed so hard she threw her head back and held her stomach. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

Laughter was good. It released pain-relieving endorphins. Plus, it crinkled the bridge of her nose in a most amusing way.

The Doctor feigned grumpiness as he landed the TARDIS in her bedroom. Without a word he gathered Clara’s discarded boots, gloves, goggles, hat, puffy coat and bag. He gave a wink before exiting the TARDIS.

“Hey!” Clara called.

“Just stay there. I’ll be back!”

And with quick precision, he laid out her satin green pajamas, put her winter gear away, set her bag by her dresser and hurried towards the kitchen to heat up the teakettle. 

He scurried back to the bedroom and called into the TARDIS doors, “Clara! There should be two green handles under the diagnostics panel. Give ‘em a tug.”

He knew she did it by the clank and her huffing.

“Space crutches,” she said, “Nice!”

“You’re never going to give that up, are you?”

“Nope!”

The Doctor heard the ear-splitting whistle of the teakettle in the other room. His eardrums treated it like microphone feedback that drowned out all his other senses. He scrambled to shut the stove off and stop the pain. Clara had extricated herself from the TARDIS and sat herself on the bed by the time he returned carrying the same tray she used when he had Zygon flu.

“Tea? Doctor, you’re doing too m--”

“Nope, no arguments,” the Doctor held up a thin finger, “You’re supposed to stay off that ankle. You always make tea when I drop you off at home. I can set a clock by it. I’m not going to have you clomping about on crutches unless it’s to the loo.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“So can I. But there’s no shame in being taken care of once in awhile. Because taking care of somebody...” He dropped a chamomile teabag into the floral pink teacup and poured steamy water from the kettle, “...is a very fine way...” He set the teacup on its matching saucer and placed the tray beside her, “...to show someone you care about them.”

Now it became Clara’s turn to flush a fetching shade of pink. She covered her smile with a finger and bobbed the teabag in the teacup a few times before laying it on the saucer.

“Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” he asked, then added, “You may decide you want some crisps, or a magazine, or-- or maybe a--”

Her tea-flavored kiss halted his rambling. Into his ear, she whispered, “That was me saying ‘yes, Doctor, stay.’”

The next thirty minutes consisted of Clara finishing her tea, changing into her pajamas and using the loo. The Doctor got rid of the tea tray, washed the teacup, dumped her discarded attire into the dirty clothes hamper and turned down the bed while she brushed her teeth. Doing all that seemed like a small, pathetic repayment for her putting up with him during his Zygon flu.

He systemically stripped his clothing off. Coat, jumper, socks, boots and trousers. Every layer came off until he stood there wearing his white undershirt and black boxers with white question marks. He took his box of chalk from his coat pocket and set it on Clara’s pillow.

Clara shut off the hall light, leaving just the bedroom lamp for illumination. Gallifreyan crutches looked like gold question marks with green handles. They made Clara resemble an awkward three-legged creature hobbling towards the bed. She flopped heavily across the mattress, letting her crutches clatter to the floor by the nightstand, and pulled the covers up over her legs. Finally, she slipped his chalk into her pajama shirt pocket exactly like he knew she would.

“That’s hard work. Good thing I’m fit from all the running around we do.” She exhaled noisily and curled up on her right side.

The Doctor reached past her to turn off the lamp and slipped between the sheets with her. “Can I be the big spoon?”

“Mm, yeah.” 

Clara scooted backwards as he inched forward. Her body fit perfectly with his. So small, human and wonderful. He positioned his right arm to support her neck on his bicep while bending his elbow under the pillow so he could hold the top of it with his hand. His left arm ended up draped over her waist.

Clara’s legs followed the curves of his. She wedged her left foot into the little space between his ankles and adjusted herself for comfort. Her ear ended up near his nose. He tilted his head back, thinking she didn’t want to hear him breathing over and over.

“No, Doctor...it’s okay.”

“That doesn’t annoy you?”

“Not at all.”

The original position  _was_  a lot more comfortable. A bonus-- every breath smelled like her peach shampoo and his pocket chalk.

“Better?” he purred in her ear.

"Mmhmm.” She squeezed his hand.

Sometimes he wished he could enjoy breath on his ear, but he only noticed the tickling whooshing noises and it left him unable to focus on anything else. 

“Do you remember the beach planet?” yawned Clara.

“I remember the sunburn,” the Doctor groaned. A kind of pain he hoped to never experience again. 

This regeneration’s curse was pasty skin that sunburned easily. The flaky peeling stage drove him bananas because he couldn’t stop picking at it until it healed. Clara, by contrast, came away with a lovely tan. Definitely more attractive than looking like a watermelon slice.

“And...” he continued, laying his Scottish brogue on thick, “I have a hunch that you’re making me talk because you like hearing my voice in your ear. Are you getting in a  _mood_ , Clara?”

“Not tonight...too sore.” Her body language said yes, her words said no.

He respected her words.

“It’s fine. Rest,” the Doctor kissed Clara behind the ear. He remembered something she said while he recovered from his Zygon flu and found himself repeating it ad verbatim, “I’ll hold you while you sleep, love.”

Her smile was palpable in the dark. He mirrored it and closed his eyes.

.o

The Doctor awoke after a two hour catnap. Laying there all night would get boring, so he got up to dust Clara’s entire living room, used the bathroom and returned to bed twenty minutes before her alarm clock went off. He laid there with his eyes closed so she could enjoy the experience of waking up in his arms. 

Clara’s ankle was good as new. No gasps of pain when she eased herself off the bed. The bandage rustled slightly as she unwrapped it. 

The Doctor kept his eyes shut even though he felt her gaze on him. This time, Clara knew he wasn’t really asleep.

“Hey,” she whispered, “here’s your chalk. I’m going to freshen up.”

He opened his hand to accept the rectangular cardboard box. His chalk was off-limits for jokes or pranks that blocked his access to it. She ensured he knew its exact location if she had to remove it from his pocket and always let him put it back afterward.

The Doctor reclined lazily on Clara’s bed with his eyes closed and his hands folded behind his head. He listened to her bustle around in the bathroom while gnawing on the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom. Such frequent use caused it to develop scuff marks and grow more pliable in response to his pressure from his teeth. Sometimes it felt like chewing on the bottom of a well-worn shoe.

Weight settled on the mattress near his feet. Knowing what came next, he moved the No Gloom ‘Shroom towards the center of his mouth. Clara straddled his hips and plucked the chewable stim toy from his lips. She replaced it with a slow, minty, sucking-biting kiss that sent his pulses racing.

“You were looking for something last night,” Clara purred.

“I was?” asked the Doctor. He teasingly bit his lower lip and raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” 

She held the hard umbrella-end of his No Gloom ‘Shroom in her teeth and made a show of pulling her hair back into a ponytail with a red rubber band. Then she unbuttoned her pajama top, took his chewable stim toy out of her mouth and teasingly outlined his lips with the stem. She’d been kind enough to wipe his spit off it first so it wouldn’t induce automatic gagging. Cold body fluids, even his own, could ruin a moment like this.

The Doctor’s hearts fluttered a hemiola in his chest. He caught the No Gloom ‘Shroom in his mouth, faked eye contact by focusing on her eyelashes and sucked on it while imagining it was her.

Her cheeks flushed faintly pink. Rather fetching in the morning light. “We’ve never done it while you had that in your mouth before.”

“What about kissing?” he asked around it, “Everything is better with kissing.”

Clara reached for the covers, “Let’s figure it out as we go. You like doing things that way.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her and helped pull the covers over their heads.

 

.o  **END**  o.


End file.
